Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

A Good Woman’s skin must always be dewy, fresh and even. The perfect chap will recoil from dry or blemished skin, and what a pity that would be!

Matilda Beam’sGuide to Love and Romance, 1955

Grandma brings through a tall stack of jewel-coloured hardbacks and hands them over as if she’s bestowing me with a solution to world peace before dashing back off to see Valentina out. I lounge on the end of the bed and select the top book on the pile.

Matilda Beam’s Guide to Love and Romance

I put it to my nose and give it a sniff, instantly sneezing. It smells of old. Running my finger over the coarse, dark pink, cloth-bound cover, I open it up. On the front inside page is a black and white photograph of a woman sitting at a desk with a glass of champagne in one hand and her other hand elegantly extended to the camera to show off an art deco engagement ring. Presumably Grandma. She looks young, twenty or so. And she’s hot! Beneath the, well, bitterness, my mum was really beautiful, but Matilda Beam is something else. I can’t tell the exact colour of her hair from the monochrome image, but it’s quite dark and styled in a gorgeously perfect wave down to her shoulders. She’s raising an eyebrow and wearing a dress that flips out in the skirt, making her waist look absolutely minuscule. Underneath the image there’s a little bio:

Matilda Beam (née Miller) pictured on the day she was engaged to Jack Beam, New York heir to the Delightex empire.

Delightex? The American bra company? My granddad owned Delightex? Woah. Why didn’t Mum tell me that titbit? That’s mega information.

Before she fell in love with Beam, Matilda was the toast of the New York debutante scene, receiving proposals of marriage from no less than three of Manhattan’s most eligible bachelors! No doubt about it, Matilda Beam is a Good Woman. Read her story! Follow her tips! Land the man of every woman’s dreams!

Threemarriage proposals? Toast of New York?

I flick forward a few pages.

Never wear trousers on a date. A Good Man will appreciate shapely legs. But not too much leg, lest you be thought of as loose. Skirts below the knee, always.

I snort and think about my skinny jeans that are so tight you can see what I had for lunch yesterday. And the only skirts I have that go below the knee are my nighties. And most of them don’t even manage that.

Nobody really likes a Chatty Cathy. Let your date take the lead in conversation and be sure to let him know just how fascinating you find him with an enigmatic smile and a few well placed throaty laughs. He will certainly enjoy being around you!

What? This can’t be real. Are they going to expect me to do this? I can’t quite figure out whether it’s hilarious or horrendous.

I pick up the other books and leaf through them. There’s everything from a Good Bride Guide and a Good Mother Guide to a Good Housewife Guide. Wow, Grandma wrote loads!

I examine the biography picture in the final book – Matilda Beam’s Good Woman Guide: it’s Grandma again. She’s sitting beside a tall, handsome man in a suit with a cute, chubby toddler perched on her knee.

Matilda Beam sure is a Good Woman! Married to Jack Beam in 1955, she is the bestselling author of guides to life as a Good Woman. The Matilda Beam Good Woman Guides are a staple in any home library, not just in Britain but in America, where Matilda’s straightforward brand of charm and amazing results are renowned. Matilda Beam lives in New York with her husband, CEO of Delightex underwear, Jack Beam and their young daughter, Rose.

Wow. Mum lived in New York? I wonder how long for? Did she grow up in New York? Was she a cheerleader? Why did they return? Once again it occurs to me how much I don’t know about her, about my history, and I experience a roll of guilt for not asking her more when I had the chance. I suppose that, at the very least, being stuck in this place for the next month will give me a chance to find out more.

Before I can think on it much further, the door bursts open and Grandma sweeps back in, closely followed by Peach, who is carrying a fresh set of fluffy cornflower-blue towels.

‘Oh, Jessica. I couldn’t be happier. You have answered my prayers,’ Grandma chokes out. ‘Valentina has asked that we keep her updated with our progress. She likes you a great deal, I think. Oh, what an utterly wonderful development.’

Peach echoes the sentiment with a small, pink-cheeked grin.

And then my worst nightmare becomes real. The pair of them engage me in an enthusiastic group hug. I hold my breath until it’s over, which takes so long that my vision starts wobbling around the edges.

‘A new friend,’ Peach whispers to herself, quite intensely.

‘Oh! Er, yeah.’

‘I have such a lot to teach you, dear,’ Grandma says breathlessly. ‘I will teach you everything I know. Everything. You will be the perfect Good Woman. This time I will get it right.’

I have my trainers on. I could run out, escape right now and never look back … except that I have nowhere to go and no cash with which to go there. Yet.

‘Brill,’ I say weakly when I’ve escaped their stranglehold on my body. ‘Fine. Yay. Great. Hurrah. Just … no more hugs, all right?’

They laugh lightly as if I am joking. But I am not joking.

* * *

After giving me a house key, the landline telephone number, and – due to my firmly enforced no-hugs rule – many joyfully teary arm pats, Grandma reluctantly grants me leave (on account of good behaviour) for my run, with instructions to meet her and Peach at Cafe Lucius on Kensington High Street for lunch at one p.m. prompt.

My run is a pleasant, sunshiny affair on the fancy-ass streets of Kensington and Chelsea, and I’m chuffed to discover that around here I don’t have to keep my head down in order to avoid errant dog turds like I usually have to in Manchester. Silver linings.

I try not to think too much about what I’m going to be doing for the next month, the fact that I’m going to have to see the knob-prince Leo Frost again, how I now have to write twenty-thousand words in four weeks, or that when Grandma smiles she looks exactly like my mum. Instead I shove in my earbuds, turn up the Arctic Monkeys to full blast on my iPhone, and think about the money this project will earn and the freedom that could bring.

When I can run no more, I check the clock on my phone. Ten past one. Oops. I shuffle as quickly as I can manage, sweaty and breathless, to this Cafe Lucius. I spot Grandma and Peach sitting at one of the outside tables on the pavement. It must be about thirty degrees today but, as I approach, I notice that Peach is holding an umbrella over Grandma’s head. With her free hand she gives me a small, shy wave.

‘Oh, you’re here!’ Grandma says as I slump down onto a cast-iron chair beside them and catch my breath. ‘And perspiring rather heavily. Never mind, at least you’re here. Although, Jessica, you’ll do well to remember that being late is never, ever fashionable.’ She gives me a pointed smile.

‘What’s with the brolly?’ I say, unwrapping my earbuds from around my neck and plonking them onto the table.

‘The parasol protects Mrs Beam from the harmful rays of the sun,’ Peach tells me, as if it’s a normal occurrence for her to be holding a freaking parasol over someone’s head. I wonder how long she’s been holding it for. Her arm must be killing her.

‘Yes, a Good Woman’s skin must always be dewy, fresh and even,’ Grandma echoes. ‘The perfect chap will recoil from an ill-kept complexion.’

I snort. ‘A guy who palms you off because you’ve got a spot or two? Sounds like a twat to me. I love the sun, I do.’ I close my eyes, spreading my arms out and sighing happily as I bask in its soothing golden warmth. ‘And anyway, we have amazing science-y light-reflecting foundation nowadays, you know. Hides everything.’

‘A naturally clear complexion is the finest foundation,’ Grandma insists. ‘Such a lot to learn,’ she mutters to herself.

‘It’s only skin.’ I roll my eyes and take off my steamy glasses, cleaning them with a stiff linen napkin from the table. ‘I don’t know why you’re getting so put the lotion in the basket about it.’

‘Ah yes, lotion is a very good idea.’ Grandma nods approvingly, missing my reference. ‘We shall moisturize you as soon as we return home.’

We?Is this moisturizing of me intended to be some kind of group activity? I don’t think I’m up for that.

Before I can verify her plans, a waitress comes out of the vine-framed cafe door and hands us thick cream menu cards.

‘Oh yes, the wine list,’ Grandma beams. ‘A bottle of my favourite vintage champagne is in order, I think. One must always celebrate the good moments.’ And then, as her eyes scan down the list, her nostrils flare.

I look at my wine list. Fucking hell, it’s expensive! From what Peach said, there’s no way Grandma can afford this: the cheque from Valentina won’t clear for another few days, and even then she’ll have to use that for this month’s mortgage. Her cheeks pinken slightly.

‘Gad, I really hate champagne,’ I say, casually handing my menu back to the waitress. ‘Do you guys mind if we don’t get any of that?’

‘Me too,’ Peach agrees fervently, catching on. ‘But I’d love some of the home-made lemonade, please.’

Grandma’s lips wobble. She looks down at the table for a moment before closing the menu with a sigh. ‘Oh, but of course I shan’t have a whole bottle to myself. Lemonade for me too, I suppose.’

‘Anything to eat?’ the waitress asks, pencil poised.

Each of us orders the cheapest possible dish – a garden salad for Grandma and Peach and a side order of hand-cut chips for me. The waitress gives us a thoroughly irritated look before clomping back off into the cafe.

Grandma inhales sharply and immediately dives into her handbag – a real Chanel by the look of the gold clasps – and pulls out a little leather notebook and silver pen.

‘Chop-chop then, we must get started,’ she says briskly. ‘Peach, you should telephone Mr Frost’s secretary right away to find out his schedule. We need to know his whereabouts in order to orchestrate a chance meeting between he and Jessica.’

‘Oh, don’t bother with that.’ I tap on my iPhone. ‘He’ll be here on Twitter – I can find out right now.’

‘Twitter?’ Grandma frowns. ‘Is that a telephone directory?’

‘No,’ I chuckle, showing her my phone. ‘Twitter is a social media site. Look! People update every few hours with their thoughts on the world, what their plans are, what they’re having for breakfast, pictures of animals they like the look of.’

She shakes her head in wonder. ‘How terribly self-indulgent.’

‘It’s right popular, Mrs Beam,’ Peach says as the waitress brings out our lemonade. ‘Martha Stewart is on Twitter, you know.’

‘Dearest Martha is a Twitter?’ Grandma looks confused. ‘Whatever for?’

I shrug. ‘It’s hard to explain why it’s so good. But it’s brill, trust me. Aha! Here he is. Leo Frost, see?’

I click on his profile page, noticing that his avatar has been professionally shot. It’s black and white and manipulated by one of those hyper-contrasted Instagram-type filters. In the photo, Leo Frost is wearing a sharp black suit and smoking a cigar. The Manhattan skyline looms behind him.

‘Very handsome chap.’ Grandma nods approvingly.

Peach squeaks. ‘Oh my, what a beautiful man. He looks like that actor Tom Hiddleston.’

‘He does not. Not really. He’s an idiot, anyway.’

A wave of dislike rushes through me as I read Leo Frost’s twitter bio: Leo Frost. Woolf Frost ad agency. Artist. Thinker. Man.

Ew. What an absolute turd. I can’t believe I’m going to have to spend actual time with this knucklehead and, worse, pretend to like him. ‘Ugh,’ I hiss at the screen. Scrolling down past the hyperlinks and the conversations and the retweeted compliments, I see a tweet from four days ago.

‘Got it,’ I say in the manner of an FBI agent locating a perp. ‘Leo Frost is going to a funfair tomorrow night. It’s a pop-up retro summer funfair in Regent’s Park. The event company who run it are a big client of the agency where he works, by the looks of it.’ I Google speedily like a pro. ‘The launch is tomorrow and Leo is a VIP guest.’

‘Wonderful. The funfair is a perfect place to approach Mr Frost for the first time, especially on a balmy midsummer’s evening. The scent of the cotton candy, the sound of young laughter … ’ Grandma sighs to herself and looks into the distance. ‘My precious Rose always adored the funfair as a girl. She was ever so fond of the carousel . . . ’ She trails off into her memories.

I blink. My mum liked the funfair? I think of her face, drawn and always tired. I can’t imagine her anywhere near a funfair. At the doctor’s, the benefits office, crying in her bed, at Morrisons, yes. Never a funfair. It seems like such a stark juxtaposition. And to hear Grandma describe her as happy? Mum was pretty much the opposite of happy.

I bite my lip, examining Grandma as she scribbles in her notebook. It strikes me once more that Mum had this completely separate life before I came along. She had a whole long, complex, funfair-going life that I know absolutely nothing about. To me she was just Mum, the person who took me to school (on the good days). The one who bought me books from the charity shop and wrapped them up in gift paper, even if it wasn’t a birthday or Christmas. The woman I loved so much and wanted to make laugh and smile and be happy again. Didn’t quite manage that, though.

‘Why didn’t you go to her funeral?’ I blurt out to Grandma before I can stop myself.

Grandma quickly looks up from her notebook. A lock of her frizzy silver hair falls out of her chignon. She blinks rapidly beneath her red spectacles and opens her mouth as if to say something before closing it again. Looking around at the cafe tables surrounding us, she eventually opens her mouth again.

‘I-I had … a terrible … chest infection,’ she says slowly. ‘Sadly, I was too unwell to go, I’m afraid.’ I notice her hand shake a little. She notices me noticing and puts it on her lap underneath the table. ‘Jessica, this is hardly the place to talk about such things.’ She purses her lips. ‘We’ve got a lot of work to do and only a little time in which to do it.’

What an odd response. I frown at Grandma. She looks back at me for a moment – her expression inscrutable − before her eyes slide away and she goes back to note-making.

I take a big gulp of my lemonade and try to clear my head. I don’t like thinking about Mum. It makes my brain and my insides ache.

I wonder if it’s too early for a glass of pear cider?

Why am I asking? It’s never too early for pear cider. I signal over to the waitress.